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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24931000">Through a Glass, Darkly</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/spokenitalics/pseuds/spokenitalics'>spokenitalics</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Sandman (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, Introspection, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Canon, Various Cameos - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 06:21:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,053</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24931000</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/spokenitalics/pseuds/spokenitalics</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There's no such thing as just a dream. Not when you're human, and most certainly not when you're a nightmare, and the first thing you ever see are the eyes like stars of Dream of the Endless.</i>
</p><hr/><p>In which, after Morpheus' demise, the Corinthian struggles to come to terms with his identity.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>The Corinthian/Original Male Character(s), The Second Corinthian &amp; Dream of the Endless | Daniel, The Second Corinthian &amp; Eve</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Through a Glass, Darkly</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks to the amazing iberiandoctor for betaing this!</p><p>I based the timeline on that fact that, in issue #73, Hob Gadling tells Death he dreamed of the Wake "back in January," and that, after she confirms Morpheus is dead, he realises they "won't be meeting in 94 years," making the current year 1995.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>I.</b>
</p><p>Anatoly Polyakov is seven and he's scared of the dark. </p><p>Every night, he cries himself to sleep as he hides under the covers. He thinks his blanket will protect him, that it'll stop the monsters from taking him, from touching him, from killing him. </p><p>It won't.</p><p>It doesn't. </p><p>His eyes taste of salt and loneliness and the tiniest sliver of hope.</p><p>—</p><p>Michael Stanley is twenty-nine and does things in his sleep that he wouldn't dare even think about while awake.</p><p>He dies on the dirty floor of a locker room he built from memory, with a frown on his face and hands red with blood. </p><p>His eyes taste of burned sugar and want and shame.</p><p>—</p><p>Francesco Consoli is forty-three and spends most of his nights being chased by a monster that calls out for him in his mother's voice.</p><p>Tonight, he's running through the ever-changing corridors of his childhood home, lost in a labyrinth of dusty tapestries and smirking portraits. The monster is right behind him, her rancid breath warming the back of his neck as she whispers his name. </p><p>He's been running his whole life. He's tired. His legs are sore. He knows it's almost over. He can imagine her claws reaching towards him, grabbing him, digging into his flesh. He prepares for the inevitable, for what happens every night…</p><p>And then nothing happens.</p><p>The monster is gone. The tapestries and the portraits are gone. The corridors are gone. Everywhere he looks, all he can see is black emptiness. </p><p>He's not alone, though. </p><p>"Haven't seen you in a while," Francesco says. "Are you here to kill me?"</p><p>The man takes off his sunglasses and smiles and smiles and smiles.</p><p>Francesco doesn't scream, doesn't cry. </p><p>His eyes are sweet but tangy, and through them, the Corinthian sees pain and disgust and true darkness. </p><p>—</p><p>Anatoly Polyakov wakes up with a jolt, his heart pounding in his ears. He's gonna need clean sheets. </p><p>—</p><p>Michael Stanley wakes up with tears streaming down his face. He's in his office, must have nodded off. He curses himself and goes back to work, hoping no one saw him. </p><p>—</p><p>Francesco Consoli wakes up, and, for a brief moment, he thinks it's finally over, that he's dead, that <em> she </em> won't ever be able to make him pay for everything he did or failed to do. </p><p>—</p><p>They all think, "It was just a dream."</p><p>They're all wrong. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>II.</b>
</p><p>There's no such thing as just a dream. Not when you're human, and most certainly not when you're a nightmare, and the first thing you ever see are the eyes like stars of Dream of the Endless. </p><p><b> <em>"Now: live," </em> </b>Morpheus orders, his voice the echo of thunder exploding miles and eons away. </p><p>For the creature standing before the Dreamlord, those words are the first breath of air after an eternity spent drowning, the first taste of warmth when all he's ever known is ice, the sweet relief of water as it kills the fire consuming his innards. </p><p>"Who am I?" the new nightmare asks. </p><p><b> <em>"I wove your flesh from the stuff of the Dreaming. I molded you into this form, sculpted you into your function. I am your master," </em> </b> Morpheus says as he paces around his new creation, admiring his own craftsmanship. <b> <em>"You are humanity's dark mirror, a thing of darkness, unborn and undying. I name you: the Corinthian." </em> </b></p><p>—</p><p>"Do you ever dream?" a man called James asks the Corinthian years, decades, centuries later, as they drive down a road lined with cypresses. </p><p>"I don't," he answers, without taking his brand-new eyes off the street. "I don't even sleep. You know that." </p><p>"You don't need to sleep to dream," James says in that way he'll sometimes say things aloud he only meant to think. He's so busy cleaning his dagger he probably didn't even hear himself. </p><p>A while later, when the dagger is back in its sheath and the cypresses have been replaced by scrawny cherry trees, he asks, "But if you did dream, what do you reckon you'd dream about?"</p><p>The answer comes to the Corinthian with such clarity that he's unable to stop the words from rushing past his lips: "The only pair of eyes I can never have." </p><p>James looks up, his own ice-blue eyes wide in surprise. Then, he cracks a smile. "Is there such a thing?"</p><p>"There is."</p><p>"Tell me about them, then." </p><p>"Why?" </p><p>"Because I want to know," he insists.</p><p>The truth is that the Corinthian hasn't thought about those eyes in a very long time. At first, he had to force himself not to, because the hope of seeing them again was enough to tempt him back to the Dreaming. In time, it became easier and easier to ignore them, until they just slipped away from his memory. Now, he wonders if they would even still have power over him…</p><p>He's not a nightmare, anymore. The fear he inspires doesn't fade away at the first light of morning, it can't be shrugged off as a bad dream, or as some irrational phobia. It's real, as real as the pain he inflicts, as indelible as death.</p><p>James understands. He understands the joy of killing, of knowing you've caused someone pain, of knowing people who've never met you are afraid of you, of what you might do to them, of all the ways you could hurt them. He understands what it's like to wage war on humanity and on life itself. </p><p>That's why the Corinthian answers his question. </p><p>"They're beautiful, those eyes," he starts, letting his mind wander back in time. "Beautiful and bright and cold and cruel. I haven't seen them in almost seventy years, and I still remember how cruel they are. Seventy years, and I still wonder what they'd taste like, what it would feel like to have them burn inside my skull, what I would see through them…"</p><p>—</p><p>In the end, all Morpheus has to do to stop the Corinthian is speak, and all the Corinthian can do is listen. And as he listens, and as those words burn through him, he dreams.</p><p>He dreams of many faces: old and young, rich and poor. Faces that scream and beg and cry. Faces that know better than to do any of that.</p><p>He remembers all of them.</p><p>They're all the people he's ever killed, and they're all laughing as his flesh melts away like candle wax, as everything he is slips away from him like sand. </p><p>His final plea dies as a silent scream in the back of his throat, and his head becomes crowded with voices: things he said — jokes, compliments, blackmail, proposals, whatever he knew would work as a lure; things he heard, in hotel rooms and empty alleys and churches and bedrooms — promises and prayers and offerings and accusations. </p><p>And in all that noise he sees two twin stars, and he loves and hates and craves and dreads them. </p><p>They roar as they pierce his skull, and as they do he tells himself, "It was worth it." </p><p>And then he's gone, unraveled, unmade, uncreated.</p><p>—</p><p><b> <em>"Now: live," </em> </b>Morpheus orders him. </p><p>It's not the first time he hears those words. </p><p>"What am I called?" he asks. </p><p>
  <b> <em>"You are the Corinthian."</em> </b>
</p><p>Yes.</p><p>Yes, he is.</p><p>He's the Corinthian. </p><p>Not the first one, though. </p><p>He's the Corinthian, <em> again </em>. </p><p>Except he's not.</p><p>He's different.</p><p>He's missing something.</p><p>Or maybe he has something he didn't have before. </p><p>—</p><p>There's blood on the throne of the Dreamlord. The Corinthian stands behind it, trembling — red, wet, tears dribbling from his mouths. </p><p>A figure appears. </p><p>"Daniel?" the Corinthian asks, trying to make sense of what happened. </p><p><em> "No," </em> the Dreamlord answers. His voice is silky, much softer than his previous one, but his eyes shine as bright as always. <em> "Not any longer."  </em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>III.</b>
</p><p>The door to the throne room is closed, but the Corinthian can hear Mervyn complaining on the other side of it — something about a planet being destroyed and the pumpkinhead having to build accommodations for the gods that used to be worshipped there. No doubt, the discussion will end with the Dreamlord telling Mervyn how much he appreciates his hard work, especially given the short notice, and then sending him back to do what he's supposed to do. And smiling, probably. He does that, now.</p><p>There's a noise that sounds halfway between a scratchy caw and a laugh, and Matthew the raven lands on the marble bust above the door. He looks… smug? Amused? It's hard to tell with birds.</p><p>"Eaten any eyes, lately?" he croaks. </p><p>"Yes," the Corinthian tells him, crossing his arms. "You?" </p><p>Matthew doesn't answer. Instead, he asks, "In trouble with the boss?"</p><p>"Don't think so, no." </p><p>"Shame."</p><p>As a matter of fact, the Corinthian has no idea why the Dreamlord wants to see him. As far as he's aware, he's done nothing worthy of either praise or reproach, and apart from that, there aren't many reasons for a Major Arcana like him to be summoned to the heart of the Dreaming. </p><p>"You do understand I could go back to wanting to kill you at any moment, right?" he warns the raven.</p><p>"Give me a break." </p><p>That makes him chuckle. "I think I liked you better when you were scared of me." </p><p>"Too bad."</p><p>At last, the door opens. Mervyn walks out with his rubber hands in his pockets and a toothpick in his mouth, whistling happily as he makes his way back to work. </p><p>The Corinthian lowers his sunglasses to wink at Matthew before going in. </p><p>Dream of the Endless is sitting on his throne. He's dressed entirely in white, as usual, with his emerald shining against his chest. </p><p><em> "You must forgive me for having kept you waiting," </em> he starts, getting up. His robe trails behind him as he walks down the marble steps. <em> "Some unexpected arrivals needed my supervision." </em></p><p>The Corinthian doesn't say anything. He just nods and shifts on his feet. </p><p><em> "I see you have reacclimated to your post perfectly," </em>the Dreamlord says once he's just a few feet away from him. </p><p>"I have, my Lord." </p><p>There's a moment of silence, followed by another, and another, and another. </p><p><em> "However, I have a question for you," </em> the Dreamlord says, eventually. He pauses again, as if struggling to choose the right words. <em> "Well, not a question, per se. Not one that requires an immediate answer, or one I need you to answer at all. Just something I would like you to think about, I suppose." </em></p><p>"Yes, my Lord?" </p><p>The Dreamlord hesitates for a moment, and then asks, <em> "What do you think of your name?"  </em></p><p>"I don't understand." </p><p><em> "You see, after my investiture, I decided not to use all the names I amassed in the eons before I was, well, me," </em> he explains. <em> "I haven't earned them myself. I am Dream, not Morpheus, not Oneiros, not Kai'ckul or L'Zoril." </em></p><p>"And you think I don't deserve my name?" the Corinthian asks, hands tightened into fists.</p><p><em> "I beg your pardon, I haven't explained myself clearly," </em> the Dreamlord hastily tells him. <em> "What I'm wondering is if you, like me — as we're both new incarnations of someone who once was and is no more — feel weighed down in any way by the name of your old self." </em></p><p>"I don't— I don't know." </p><p><em> "As I said, it's not a question that needs to be answered immediately, or by any deadline of sorts, or at all, necessarily," </em> the Dreamlord assures him. <em> "Just something to think about." </em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>IV.</b>
</p><p>It's 1919. </p><p>During one of his escapades in the Waking World, someone asks what his name is. </p><p>It's a young man, very handsome and, by the looks of it, very rich too. Not the kind of person you'd expect to find in an old pub by the docks.</p><p>"So?" he insists when the Corinthian doesn't answer. "What is it? Are you shy? Is that what the spectacles are about?" </p><p>The Corinthian scans the room in search of an answer. A book lies abandoned on a table nearby. He reads the name on the spine, black on sepia.</p><p>"Woolf," he tells the young man.</p><p>"Well then, Mr. Woolf, care to join me for a drink?" </p><p>—</p><p>It's 1926.</p><p>That young man's face is but a distant memory, as is the taste of his eyes, and the Corinthian is watching the rain through the window of a German hotel. </p><p>"Will you tell me your name, now?" a man asks from the bed. They spent the night together. The Corinthian may be a creature of dreams and darkness, but he's not insusceptible to carnal pleasures. </p><p>"Why does it matter?" he asks. </p><p>"Well, I intend to go back to the <em> Institut </em> and tell them all about my new mysterious blind lover," the man explains. "It would be nice to have a name to attach to my tale." </p><p>"I would tell you to make one up if you care so much," he starts, finally revealing himself. "But I'm afraid you wouldn't have much use for it." </p><p>—</p><p>It's 1932.</p><p>The United States are big and empty and desperate — the perfect hunting ground. </p><p>—</p><p>It's 1947.</p><p>As he lies on a bed stained with blood and semen, looking at the room around him through mismatched eyes, he makes the most important decision of his life. </p><p>The lurid red wallpaper, the dusty beige carpet, the gold-rimmed furniture, the heavy purple curtains on the other side of which Las Vegas is as awake and loud and chaotic as ever — they all remind him of what the Dreaming used to be, of what it hasn't been for three decades, now. </p><p>Three decades he's spent following the orders of a man who abandoned his own duties, waiting for his return like a dog yearning for its master, surviving on humanity's fear like a lowly scavenger, only occasionally granting himself the pleasure of a real meal. </p><p>No more. </p><p>He wants to be free. </p><p>He wants to see everything the Waking World has to offer. </p><p>He's not going back to the Dreaming. Not ever. </p><p>—</p><p>It's 1950.</p><p>People have noticed the trail of eyeless victims he leaves behind. They tell stories about him, give him names: Tiresias, the Eye-eater, the He-Banshee. He doesn't like any of them. </p><p>It won't take much to fix that. </p><p>"I need you to do me a favor, Lily," he starts, crouching down next to the woman. "Your name's Lily, isn't it?" </p><p>She's crying, sobbing, her moans a muffled lullaby.</p><p>"I'm leaving now, Lily," he tells her. "As soon as I'm gone, I want you to call the police and tell them what happened."</p><p>The woman looks up at him. The moment her eyes meet the ones that used to be her husband's, her face twists into a beautiful mask of grief and rage and hate.</p><p>He smiles at her. </p><p>"And if you don't want to see me ever again, you'll tell them my name is the Corinthian."</p><p>—</p><p>It's 1963. </p><p>They've given him new names — the Eye Guy, the Dark Angel, the Shades — but this morning's newspaper reads THE CORINTHIAN KILLS AGAIN. </p><p>He's famous, now, and he's inspiring others: new soldiers of darkness, gladiators, warriors and gods. Special people. Dreamers. </p><p>—</p><p>It's 1971. </p><p>His captor can't be older than twenty, but his magic is strong. Strong enough to summon a Major Arcana, anyway.</p><p>"I want to offer you a deal," he tells the Corinthian as he walks around the circle of runes carved on the wooden floor. "Give me what I want, and you'll be free."</p><p>"How do you know what you want is mine to give?" the Corinthian asks from inside the circle. It's an ingenious cage, if somewhat amateurish.</p><p>"It is," the boy assures him. "It's the one thing your kind is good for." </p><p>"My kind?" </p><p>"Demons."</p><p>A smirk grows on the Corinthian's face. "I'm much worse than a demon, boy." </p><p>His captor doesn't say anything, but the surprise shows on his face, mixed with a healthy dose of fear. </p><p>"What's your name?" the Corinthian asks him. </p><p>"F-Francesco." </p><p>"Francesco," he repeats as he sits down on the floor. "I like it a lot. I like your eyes, too." </p><p>The boy has obviously no idea what to say to that. </p><p>"People go on and on about blue eyes and green eyes, but look at yours, black as pitch and as deep as the night itself: beautiful," he continues as he absentmindedly runs his finger along the narrow gap between two floorboards. Then, he looks up. "So, Francesco, how about <em> I </em> offer <em> you </em> a deal?" </p><p>"What?"</p><p>"I'm serious. Only because I like your eyes: let me out, and I promise you'll never see me again." </p><p>"No," Francesco says. He's trying to look confident, but his voice is shaky.</p><p>"No?"</p><p> "Someone is after me. Someone bad, someone powerful."</p><p>"And what? You want me to kill them for you?" </p><p>"I want you to kill <em> me </em>." </p><p>The Corinthian laughs. "Are you too much of a coward to kill yourself?" </p><p>"No. I just— I— I need—" </p><p>"Take your time, boy."</p><p>Francesco takes a deep breath. "My mother… she's a witch. She's powerful." </p><p>"So you've said." </p><p>"If I kill myself, or if another human kills me, she'll just bring me back. I need—" </p><p>"You need to sign your soul away to a demon so you can't be resurrected," the Corinthian concludes. "If I knew this would be this boring, I wouldn't have stayed so long." </p><p>"You wouldn't have… stayed?" </p><p>"The thing is, Francesco, this circle of yours only restricts my physical form, which would've worked if you'd summoned a demon," he explains as he stands up and brushes off his pants. "But you really have no idea who I am, do you?" </p><p>"I don't care." </p><p>"You should," he says, and then does something he hasn't done in a long time. </p><p>As the barrier between the worlds shifts around him, he wonders if he'll be able to find the way. Then again, could a fish ever forget how to swim? </p><p>He lets himself be dragged by the current, diving deeper and deeper until he finds a soft spot in the membrane. His skin tingles as he pushes through it, and then he's in the Dreaming. </p><p>He has no time to look around, and no desire to be seen by anyone, so he makes sure to stay well away from the Houses of Mystery and Secrets, keeping to only the shallowest parts of Nightmare, where night terrors live. </p><p>It's not hard to find what he's looking for, partly because he hasn't lost his touch, but mostly because the red-haired woman has the same beautiful black eyes as her son.</p><p>He takes her by the hand and drags her back with him.</p><p>That's all it takes to reduce Francesco to a hysterical puddle of tears and apologies. It's disappointing, really. It's not even a particularly well-made illusion.</p><p>"I promise you this," the Corinthian tells him as he steps out of the circle. "No demon shall ever touch you." </p><p>He doesn't have that kind of power, of course, but Francesco doesn't know that, and there are few things as powerful as belief. </p><p>—</p><p>It's 1984. </p><p>He's in an old abandoned building, licking his lips in anticipation as he crouches down on his latest victim, when he hears someone clearing their throat. </p><p>He looks up to see a man standing just a few feet away from him. He's in his late thirties and has blond hair, ice-blue eyes, and a shit-eating grin almost as sharp as the dagger in his hand. </p><p>The man spends a few more seconds looking at the Corinthian, at the blood on his hands, at his toothed eyes. Finally, he says, "I've been following that fucker for four days. He's mine!"</p><p>Later, when it's almost morning and they're lying side by side, with their legs tangled and sweat shining on their skin, the Corinthian asks for the man's name. </p><p>"You can call me James," he says. </p><p>"Is that your real name?"</p><p>"I'm not giving my real name to a serial killer." </p><p>They both laugh. </p><p>"What about you?" James asks, then. "What do I call you?" </p><p>"I'm the Corinthian." </p><p>"Yeah, I gathered that much," he says. "I've been hearing about you since I was a kid. You could say I'm somewhat of a fan, actually. Although I didn't expect you to be so…"</p><p>"Young?" </p><p>"Hot," James corrects him. "Anyway, I can't call you the Corinthian."</p><p>"Why not?" </p><p>"Because it's not a real name."</p><p>"But it's my name." </p><p>"Then I'll find you a new one."</p><p>They laugh again, and then James kisses him. </p><p>What they feel for each other is not love, of course, or anything as similarly volatile. It's more like respect, or kinship, like looking into the abyss to find it not only staring back at you, but using your own eyes to do it. </p><p>And James' eyes are truly a thing of beauty, blue like ice and just as cold. How many people have lost themselves in them as his knife cut into flesh? How many people have died as James whispered sweet nothings into their ear? How many people have gotten to know him, truly know him, like only a victim can know their killer?</p><p>"What about Alex?" James asks. "Can I call you Alex?" </p><p>"Why Alex?" </p><p>James whispers in his ear, "It's the name of the first man I ever killed."</p><p>The Corinthian kisses him again. </p><p>He's had many names, by this point: names he's given himself and names that were given to him — in the darkness, as a plea, as an insult, cut off by gasps or screams, whispered in the dead of night. They're never real names, though. They never last more than the people who know him by them do. </p><p>He's Alex for the next four months and a half, until James tries to stab him in the stomach while they're showering together, and the Corinthian finally tastes those ice-blue eyes.</p><p>—</p><p>It's 1985. </p><p>Between one kiss and the other, the man he's with asks, "Can— Can I know your name?" </p><p>"Alex," he answers, without even thinking. The name echoes inside the room and inside his head. </p><p>Alex.</p><p>Alex.</p><p>Alex. </p><p>—</p><p>It's 1995.</p><p>As he thinks about the Dreamlord's question, the Corinthian remembers. </p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>V.</strong>
</p><p>It hasn't rained in months in the Dreaming. The Corinthian can't remember the sky ever staying clear for this long, in the old days. It's another thing that's changed since Morpheus' death, or at least that's what Eve tells him.</p><p>He's been spending a lot of time with her, lately. She's quieter than Mervyn, less nervous than Lucien, and she's not Cain or Abel, which is enough to make her better company than either of them. He could stay in Nightmare, of course, but he doesn't think the Nightkind like him, and he knows for sure he doesn't like any of them. Also, Eve has an impressive collection of liquors, especially for someone who lives in a cave. </p><p>"How many names do you have?" he asks her one night, as the last of his whiskey burns in the back of his throat.</p><p>She chuckles, "At least one for every language in the universe, I'd expect." </p><p>"At least?"</p><p>"People call me all sorts of things. It's hard to keep up."</p><p>"And it doesn't bother you?" </p><p>"No," she says. "Why would it?" </p><p>He looks at her for a moment before answering, watching her skin go from soft and smooth to rough and wrinkled, her hair from black to silver to snow-white, her eyes from lively jewels to clouded pools of darkness. She grows old before his eyes, and then she's young again, and then old again, and so on, endlessly. </p><p>"How old are you, truly?" he asks her. </p><p>"That rather depends on who you ask, dear," she tells him as she pours herself another glass. "Anything from 6,000 years to about 14 billion, according to the stories."</p><p>"I'm asking you." </p><p>"And what makes you think I'm more reliable than any other storyteller?" </p><p>"Well, it's your story, your life—"</p><p>"It may be my life, but it's hardly my story," she interrupts him. "Stories don't belong to anyone. Not to storytellers, and most certainly not to the people they're about. I've lived my life, but I have no power on what people go around saying about Adam's wife or the mother of monsters or the first sinner."</p><p>"But it's you— You're all of those things."</p><p>"Am I?" She's clearly not expecting an answer. Then, she says, "I have a question for you as well." </p><p>"Go ahead." </p><p>"How many people did you kill?" she asks. "Actually kill, I mean, when you were in the Waking World."</p><p>The Corinthian shifts on the rock he's sitting on. "I don't know." </p><p>"You were a serial killer. Of course you know."</p><p>"Maybe I lost count."</p><p>"Maybe," she concedes. "How many before you lost count, then?" </p><p>"I don't know," he answers, tightening the grip on his glass. </p><p>"Yes, you do." </p><p>"I don't." </p><p>"You were gone forty years, and I know how insatiable you are," she starts. "So it must've been, what, upwards of five thousand people? Ten thousand? More? And that's without counting—" </p><p>The Corinthian leaps up, throwing the glass against the wall of the cave. Before it hits the dark rock, shattering into a thousand pieces, he's closed the distance between him and Eve. She doesn't move, doesn't flinch, doesn't react at all. She's still sitting, so the Corinthian is standing over her, but he can't shake the feeling of being looked down upon by her. </p><p>"You can't hurt me," she explains calmly. "Not here. Not even if you actually wanted to." </p><p>"I want to."</p><p>She gives him a look. "It's troubling you, isn't it? Who you used to be." </p><p>He doesn't answer. </p><p>"It shouldn't," she continues, standing up. He moves to give her space.</p><p>She keeps talking as she walks towards the wall of the cave and crouches next to the glass shards: "Mind you, I'm not saying you should ignore your past. But you can't keep it from figuring out who you are now, either." </p><p>When she stands up, she's holding an intact glass. </p><p>"You can't undo what you've done," she continues as she fills it with whiskey and offers it to him. "You can't make people forget about it, either."</p><p>He takes the glass. Immediately, he notices it isn't as smooth as it was before. There are grooves and bumps where Eve fused each piece with the others.</p><p>She gives him a smile. "What you <em> can </em> do is try not to repeat the same mistakes."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>VI.</b>
</p><p>When the Corinthian asks Lucien what he knows about reincarnation and past lives, the librarian disappears for half an hour and returns with a book with a title so long that the Corinthian gives up on trying to remember it halfway through reading it on the spine. </p><p>Like all the other books in Lucien's library, it has never been written, and as the Corinthians tries to make his way through the maze of archaic jargon and complicated analogisms, he can't help but envy all the people who'll never read it.</p><p>At some point, he loses himself in the middle of a run-on sentence, and as he grasps for a period, or a semicolon, or even just a comma, he...</p><p>...he's miles away from Lucien's library, miles away from the castle and the heart of the Dreaming. He's standing on the edge of a cliff. Far below him, a barren desert. Above, an empty grey sky. </p><p>He's alone. Or at least that's what he thinks. </p><p><em> "This is what remains of what was once Fiddler's Green," </em> the Dreamlord explains, appearing beside him. <em> "I can't quite decide whether to replace it with something else or just leave it as a monument of sorts."  </em></p><p>"I haven't been here since the funeral," the  Corinthian can't stop himself from saying. "I just— I'm not sure how I got here." </p><p><em> "You didn't. I brought you here," </em> the Dreamlord says, touching his emerald. <em> "I was pondering on the events of the last few months. I'm afraid I let my mind run too wild."  </em></p><p>"But why am I here?" </p><p>
  <em> "Because I wanted you to be, and the Dreaming is but my reflection, as I am its." </em>
</p><p>"That doesn't answer my question," the Corinthian counters, adding, "My Lord," maybe a bit too late.</p><p>
  <em> "I've told you, have I not? Whenever I think about you, I can't help but see how similar we are."  </em>
</p><p>"What about Lucien?" he asks. "He used to be a raven, and Matthew used to be a man. Eve is one and three, and Mervyn— Pretty much everyone in the Dreaming has been something else than what they are now, even Fiddler's Green." </p><p><em> "But you're different. You're like me," </em> the Dreamlord says. " <em> I'm neither Morpheus nor the child Daniel. I have existed for as long as the universe has, but have been alive but for a few months </em> . <em> I remember doing things I've never done, being in places I've never seen, knowing people I've never met…" </em></p><p>"You're afraid," he says, without thinking. </p><p>Every muscle in his body tenses, bracing for the Dreamlord's reaction, but it's nothing like he expects. No cold rage, no sudden movements. Just a slight nod. </p><p><em> "Yes, I suppose I am," </em> he says, almost whispering. <em> "Are you?"  </em></p><p>"I'm a nightmare."</p><p>
  <em> "And I'm an Endless. Are you afraid?"  </em>
</p><p>"What could I possibly be afraid of?" </p><p>The Dreamlord chuckles. It makes him look impossibly young. <em> "I think your fear is the same as mine. The same as anyone's, really: you're afraid of getting it wrong." </em></p><p>"I've already gotten it wrong."</p><p><em> "So have I, many times," </em> the Dreamlord says. He's looking straight into the Corinthian's eyes. For the first time, the Corinthian realizes how different the twin stars now staring into his soul are from the ones that uncreated him, how much warmer their light is. <em> "That's why I remade you, why I placed Hippolyta Hall under my protection, why I granted Alexander Burgess to live however much time he has left in his lover's arms." </em></p><p>"You gave me a second chance." </p><p>
  <em> "I gave you what I myself sought: an opportunity to change."  </em>
</p><p>The Corinthian looks away, taking in the landscape around him, following the course of mountain ranges and canyons until they melt into the now violet sky. He wonders if Fiddler's Green's sun is still around. </p><p>"What if I get it wrong again?" he breathes out. </p><p>
  <em> "What if you get it right?"  </em>
</p><p>"I'm a nightmare."</p><p>
  <em> "Nightmares have no power in the absence of hope." </em>
</p><p>"Is that what you gave me when you remade me?" he asks, turning to face his master again. "Hope?"</p><p>
  <em> "No." </em>
</p><p>"What, then? Compassion? Is that why I can't stop thinking about all of them? All the people he— All the people <em> I </em>killed?"</p><p>
  <em> "You've always had the capacity for compassion. Without it, you couldn't have known the pain you were causing."  </em>
</p><p>"What is it, then? Why am I different?" he asks. Or shouts, really. "Why do I keep seeing them? Why do I keep seeing everything I did to them? How do I stop it?" </p><p>
  <em> "Stop what?"  </em>
</p><p>"Caring," he answers. "Whatever you did to me, whatever you changed when you remade me— I can't stop caring. I can't stop feeling cold and empty and… and bad."  </p><p><em> "I remade you exactly as you were, little nightmare." </em> Those last two words caress the Corinthian's skin like a knife. <em> "It was I who was different from when I first made you."  </em></p><p>"Why do I feel like this, then?" </p><p>
  <em> "You're changing."  </em>
</p><p>Right at that moment, the sun that once shone over green hills and crystalline waters appears over the horizon, casting its golden light on the rocky wasteland, turning it into a sea of shining topaz. </p><p>"What about my name?" he asks. "If you made me as I was, why would I ever want another name?" </p><p>
  <em> "I gave you that name, and, as we've established, I've gotten it wrong before."  </em>
</p><p>"What if you got it right?" </p><p>
  <em> "That's for you to decide." </em>
</p><p>"How?" </p><p>Dream of the Endless smiles, and the sun that used to be Fiddler's Green's sun seems to become brighter as he does. Then, he raises both hands to cup the Corinthian's face and whispers, <em> "Live."  </em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>VII.</b>
</p><p>Anatoly Polyakov will be twenty-two when he stops being afraid of the dark. </p><p>It'll happen on a night like many others, at the end of one of those adventures his best friend Ivan loves to drag him into. </p><p>The two of them will be lying on the roof of Ivan's car. Ivan will be looking at the stars. Anatoly will be looking at the smile on his best friend's face as his eyes dart from one corner of the sky to the other, as if trying to capture it all at once. </p><p>And looking at Ivan, at his wonder at something that's only visible in the dark, Anatoly will think of the little boy who cried himself to sleep because he was too afraid of what he couldn't see. </p><p>That night, Anatoly will finally have the courage to take Ivan's hand in his own. Ivan won't say anything, but his smile will grow even bigger. </p><p>—</p><p>Michael Stanley will be eighty-four when he dies.</p><p>"Was I a bad person?" he'll ask the woman with the ankh. </p><p>"I don't know," she'll answer. "Do you think you were?"</p><p>"I thought about hurting people, killing them, doing worse things than killing." </p><p>"Did you ever actually do any of that?" </p><p>"No, but I thought about it," he'll say. "Am I going to Hell?" </p><p>"I'm afraid that's for you to find out."</p><p>Then, she'll give him a kiss on the cheek, and as he hears the sound of her wings, he'll be gone.</p><p> —</p><p>Francesco Consoli is forty-three and spends most of his nights being chased by a monster that calls out for him in his mother's voice.</p><p>Tonight is not one of those nights. </p><p>Instead, he finds himself on a beach of black sand. The sky above is cloudy, and the ocean roars as it crashes against the shore. </p><p>The white-haired man is there, waiting for him. No sunglasses, this time. </p><p>"I'm dreaming," Francesco says. He doesn't know how he knows that, he just does.</p><p>"You are," the man confirms. He looks exactly like he did twenty-four years ago — same haircut, same cocky smile, not a line on his face. </p><p>"But it feels…" he starts, looking for the right word. Under his feet, the sand is coarse and cool, and a humid breeze coming from the sea is making his clothes stick to his skin. "...real." </p><p>"It <em> is </em> real."</p><p>Francesco knows that's true too. Again, he's not sure how. </p><p>"Are you real?" he asks. </p><p>"Yes," the man answers. "But I'm also a dream. Or a nightmare, rather."</p><p>Francesco takes a step back as he tries to put all this information in order. </p><p>The man takes a step towards him. "There's no need to be afraid—" </p><p>"I'm not afraid," Francesco interrupts. He's seen and done too much to be afraid of <em> this </em>. "I just— A nightmare? What does that even mean? You go around all night terrorizing children? </p><p>"It's not that simple," the man tells him, moving backward again. "I'm the Corinthian, a black mirror that reflects everything humanity won't confront about itself." </p><p>Francesco doesn't say anything, so he continues. "I don't produce fear. I exist because of it. Men see me when they're too scared to truly see themselves." </p><p>"Is that why you're here?" </p><p>The Corinthian shakes his head. "I'm here because of your mother." </p><p>Francesco's blood freezes in his veins. He would take a deep breath, but he's suddenly incapable of breathing at all. </p><p>"What about my mother?" </p><p>"You were running away from her, all those years ago. Why?" </p><p>"It's a long story," he tells him. "And it gets longer every day." </p><p>"She's still after you?"</p><p>"Has been for almost three decades, now." </p><p>His mind wanders off to all the years he spent running, hiding, desperately trying to free himself, one way or the other. He thinks of all the things she took away from him — things he lost, things he never had, things he'll never have. </p><p>Next thing he knows, the Corinthian is standing in front of him, his hands brushing away the tears Francesco didn't realize he was crying.</p><p>"I want to make things right," he says. </p><p>Staring into toothed eye sockets, Francesco asks, "You're going to kill me?" </p><p>"I'm going to help you kill your mother." </p>
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